The New Verse News presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.

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Thursday, August 31, 2006

And so, as she entered sixth grade, she became aware ofexactly what money could buy. A dollar a day doesn't soundlike much, but it was more than her allowance. She becameadept at finding money between the sofa cushions and thecushions in the back seat of her mother's car, she was quickto spot coins left on dressers, sometimes pocketing part of atip at the coffee shop. Then some creep squealed to hismother and the teacher was found out. The other kidsdidn't mind much, for them the fun was in cutting andgetting away with it, and most of them didn't cut every daythe way she did.

Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

by Lee Pattonthe exploded contents of her toy purseas well as what remains of her brainsafter her skull got hammeredShe belongs to us,plus videos of her prances at family picnics,plus dances at pageants and recitals, plusthat dollar she saved from the tooth fairyShe belongs to us,privacy pulverized like her tiny sex--"left-over meat loaf" the reporters said--"The right to know is sacred, sovereign," soshe belongs to us;her mystery spices our loafin’ staff lunchesour theories about family secretssalt to season strangers' woundsShe belongs to usbecause we felt so violated, so victimizedNo, we never knew her, not in personNo, we weren't there, exactly, butshe belongs to usWhy, we could snap the necks of our kidswe could fuck our own flesh and bloodbut we're not that kind of people, noNot even the killer gets final possessionShe remains with usGimme that dollar, dollAmong several quarterlies that have published Lee Patton’s work: The Threepenny Review, The Massachusetts Review, The California Quarterly, and Hawaii-Pacific Review. Among many anthologies: Hawaii-Pacific Review’s Best of Decade, XY-Files, including the title poem in What’s Become of Eden: Poems of Family at Century’s End. Among other literary activities and awards: Finalist the 2001 Lambda Awards for best novel (Nothing Gold Can Stay), 2006 Colorado Authors League short fiction award, The Borderlands Playwrights Prize in 1993 (The Houseguest) and the 1996 Ashland New Playwrights (Orwell in Orlando).

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

by Spielsee this virgin soldier boystilled in his primebagging elbowscoding kneesheycome here mr. presidentcome herephony cowboytexas blueblood come heresee this virgin boycounting toes fingersand spinesgo ahead if you mustline up for the rapturewith your clown hat onmr. presidentor better yetcome here come hereto face this boywho could not barehis superior officer’s stareso he was demotedfrom near-nobodyto nobodybagging lips brainsand livers for transportback hometo the u.s.a.come here awol cowboyshow this kid your thumbsthe parts of you which proveyou could have lifted somethinggreater than a crawford chainsaw(trimming limbs of a less bloody sort)and he will show you bags full of thumb-knuckles tips and fingernailszip-coded for shipping without reallyknowing who nor where they came fromthis virgin kidwhose virgin sweetheart awaits him back homethis naïve boy who bought your bring em on boastwho figured he could prove he was a mana mighty christian at waras he watched you pray with your eyes shutbut this boy’s feet turned to sandas you waffled on your why and his girlfriend sent a message that you’d liedand unlike all his buddies he’d never felt the privilege of his sweetheart’s blood yethere he was all smeared in the blood of thumbs(not thumbs like yours with tidy fingernails)plus baby’s scalps and tiny hands and too muchsplintered bone splattered in human dungof young menjust like himcome here come onbigshot-target cowboyforgive this virgin kid who cannot standto face you cannot look you straighteye to eyebe humbled in his presence mr.cowboy without a horse to ridetell him that you’re sorrythat you led him so astrayadmit you never really had the mandatethought he won’t know what mandate ishe is a simple kida no bodydo this phony cowboyget down on your kneessob yourself to bits and piecesthen hope then beg this kidcan spare some space in his bagsto squeeze your fragments cast astraywith other oddsand ends to code them backto general deliveryto see if they(aside from all this more noble flesh and bone)just might stand the testfor the presence of human d.n.a. Spiel is uncommonly comfortable taking us on journeys into deep secrets many share but find too personal or too dark to reveal. His passion and forthrightness are evident in poems of conflict, curiously human short stories and odd bits of art published by scores of independent press magazines. Soon to be released will be come here cowboy poems of war, a Pudding House Publications chapbook, its third since 2003, of Spiel's poetry.

Monday, August 28, 2006

In the beginning, Beirut, set like pearlsagainst the stunning Mediterranean blue,could have taken your breath away.

Qana, the village where tanks gunned downcitizens in Biblical proportions:Now ten years later, attacked again,the casualties once more are children.

“It was an accident. It was their fault,their own fault for hiding among civilians,”the general chortled: “When you sleepwith a missile, sometimes you don’twake up in the morning.”

Life has assumed a strange and stuntedquality. A Koran lies open for prayer,a school notebook creases a pillow.A crushed sandal, a can of beans.And a book, blasted into a splinteredolive tree. The child who chokedto death – what was his sin?

The shock and awe, a mimicry,was planned for over a year.Officials express regret.Money and arms, a global outcry,those involved not authorized to speak.

Deborah P. Kolodji's new chapbook of cinquains and haiku, unfinished book, is available from Shadow Poetry. Her first chapbook, Seaside Moon, is a winner of the Virgil Hutton Haiku Memorial Chapbook Award. She is one of 17 haiku poets included in The New Resonance 4: Emerging Voices in English Language Haiku by Red Moon Press.

Friday, August 25, 2006

The parents of an Austrian schoolgirl missing for eight years said a teenager who apparently escaped from a cellar prison is their daughter.

More Israeli soldiers walked out of Lebanon — some smiling broadly and pumping their fists, others weeping or carrying wounded comrades.

The German government secured the release of a Bremen resident who has been held at Guantanamo since 2001.

A huge granite statue of the ancient Egyptian Pharaoh Ramses II was moved from the Cairo square where stood for more than 50 years.

Today . . .

Where we thought we belongedso longwe know we never belonged . . .

"I have a slight tear in my eye today, yes; but at the end of the day we have to describe the Solar System as it really is, not as we would like it to be," said Professor Iwan Williams.

"Honestly, I didn't think that I'd still experience this," said Ludwig Koch. "She said: 'Dad, I love you.' And the next question was: 'Is my toy car still there?' It was Natascha's favourite toy, I never gave it away in all those years.

Some sang a traditional Hebrew song with the lyric: "We brought peace to you." Others wept as they returned to their country, exhausted by the fighting.

The German foreign intelligence agency, BND, was more pointed in its discussions with the director of the CIA's Berlin office: "The guy is a harmless nut job, let him go."

Thursday, August 24, 2006

by Sadaf QureshiI like the way it works its way up into my mouth, the way it sounds when it escapes an-eh-mauws-it-y It starts out hard-headed and proud But by the time you get to the third syllable it has lost its staccato, Instead it flows like thick liquid, as though it has slipped on the wet surface of my tongue, and when you expect it to finish off staying down,it gets back up and regains its composure- but with a lost severity. There’s a picture in the paper today, About the lives they led And what that has all been reduced to- a muddle of paraphernalia scattered on a sidewalk, About the living, breathing, feeling, human debris that War has left in its path, About animosity in actionCivilians collect their belongings from their shopthat was damaged by Israeli air strikes in southern Beirut, Lebanon That is the picture in the paper today. The picture has it looking as though Animosity never had to wipe the dirt off a scraped knee, Or bare a bruise on its shin It looks at though it has never had that humbling and humiliating opportunity To get up and recover from a miss because it never does miss Never trips up Never forgets to strike It looks more unrelenting and nimble than it sounds. Still, they say that looks can be deceiving They never say anything about sounds Born in Lousiana in 1990, Sadaf Qureshi is entering Junior year at Dwight-Englewood School in Englewood, New Jersey.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

And here we are, already referring to devastation likenone we have ever known, wreckage rivaling, surpassingPearl Harbor, whose date no one in my generationremembers anyway, replacing, upgrading with 9-11, 9Eleven,titled like a convenience store, looping catchy like a commercialhell, nevermind respect somber tones, we are at war, no time tospell to say September, maybe if it happened in May, maybe, butChrist, September, who has the time, the patience, we’re too busywatching the price of oil rise hunting terrorists gaugingweakness surrendering privacy and findingjobs, but it’s like the soldier said on the news,it’s not every day you get to liberate people

and see, look at the bare-footed children, dancing intheir muddied Iraqi streets, dancing in your living roomin plasma, flat-screened clarity with their white smiles andtheir mismatched, faded clothes standing ankle deepin mud in filth in spent shells in yellow-boxed provisionsflashing a thumbs up to the camera and hey,if they know thumbs up then they mustknow high five and McDonalds and hooray Americaniconography, never mind thumbs up and thumbs downmeans live or die in somebody’s history, and the

soldier crying on the news, he misses his motherwifedaughterand his breath hitches and his voice cracksand some cameraman was extra careful to crop his shotso that none of the anger or profanity or hatred,none of the pledges for vengeance retaliationjihad, none of it bleeds into this shotso that I can empathize and sympathize andsigh deeply at the rightnessof this shot, and fill my lungsmy head with the knowledge thatit’s not every day you get to liberate people

and I won’t care that I am supposed to hoard a three daysupply of food and water in my one bedroom apartment andduct tape my windows closed (what about the vents the exhaustfans, air comes through and won’t I suffocate if duct tapeturns out not to be porous and should I just go outand buy some plants, my own private oxygen supply)and pay four dollars a gallon for gas and be subject torandom checkpoints and be called un-American anti-Americanif I don’t hang a flag tattered flapping fromthe antenna of my car because, hey,it’s not every day you get to liberate people,

and what about that couple called to duty, called away from theirnewborn son for a year or two or more, don’t feel bad that thischild will only recognize his parents from pictures like a gameof memory like the alphabet and he will learn the story of hisparents at bedtime like a fable like a fairy taleand still not know them as mommy and daddy when (if) they return butit’s not every day you get to liberate people

and everyone has suddenly become so careful with their elocution,taking pains to enunciate so Iraq and attack don’t rhyme inany context because this is not an attack this is a liberationthis is a freedom movement this is not Vietnam,this is Persian Gulf II, a continuance, a sequel,the same but with different plot twists and bigger oil fields

a father’s legacy a government’s nepotismand more merchandising, but look, America knowsa good thing needs to be franchised and it’s a promise, troopswill be in and out like a quick fuck like a game of ringand run like a trip to the store for a missing ingredientbut quick really means indefinite, it means we don’t know,it means it’s finished when it’s finished and in this lexiconquick is calculated in years not days, weeks, or monthsbut it’s like the soldier said on the news,it’s not everyday you get to liberate people.

Leann Doyle holds a BA in Media Studies and Digital Culture from Sacred Heart University, Fairfield, CT, but currently works full time as a secretary at a local college on Long Island to pay her bills. She is an artist, writer and avid reader with too many ideas and not enough time in which to execute all of them.

“The [sheriff’s] dispatcher asked again why [the female caller] needed the deputy to return. ‘Honey, I'm just going to be honest with you, OK? I just thought he was cute.’.”

– CNN.com (Jul. 14, 2006)

hero,i would savora moment of rescuefor the intimacy of it—i would dial “9-1-1”just to see ifyou come.

Carol Elizabeth Owens is an attorney and counselor-at-law in Western New York (by way of Long Island and New York City). She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Ms. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play. The poem "taste of an emergency" is written in a form called eintou (which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom").

Monday, August 21, 2006

Hugo describes him as mystical.Mickey is mystical, too.There's not a speck of dust on him.Fresh from a store,Or playroomOf a photographer's child..

Hugo tells the storyOf a failed revolutionThrough his invented characters.He kills Gavroche,For he knows it will elicit a response.But he is writing a novel.

The propaganda is passed off as real.The real pictures would be horrible enough,But the photographers can't resistAdding toys, stuffed animals,And mannequins to the mix.

The hardened readerWhen he sees Gavroche die,Doesn't cry,Because he refuses to be manipulated.

By staging these pictures,The photographersAre unintentionallyProviding an excuseTo ignore the reality.

John Newmark lives in St. Louis, Missouri, and has performed at open mics for thirteen years. His poetry and fiction have also appeared at Newspoetry, EOTU, The Landing, Bewilidering Stories, MillenniumShift, and Scared Naked Magazine. More information can be found on his website.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

When hope is dead and buried with the rest,A great gladness wells up across the land.The devils of history spring out from their nest.

Voices of crackpots contend with the best,And legions of militants strike up the bandWhen hope is dead and buried with the rest.

Heroes and deserters are honored with zestAt a feast of carnage on blood-soaked sand.The devils of history spring out from their nest.

The slaughtered innocents still are blessedto die before the flames have been fanned.When hope is dead and buried with the rest,

The old gods are treated to a proper inquest.Their towers topple and they leave the grandstand.The devils of history spring out from their nest.

Good becomes evil and evil’s a lovefest.The world turns round as if it’s been planned.When hope is dead and buried with the rest,The devils of history spring out from their nest.

Robin Shepard has had poems in The New York Quarterly, among other journals. Shepard received an MFA in Writing from Vermont College in 2006 and is at present a development officer for a California community college and a collector of mid-century arts and crafts.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer; if one ofthose bottles should happen to fall, 98 bottles of beer on thewall. 98 bottles of beer on the wall… And what seemed like98 campers piled in the nauseating yellow bus, pushing andpunching one another, going on some stupid field trip. God,he hated camp. Years before he reached adolescence hewanted to just curl up in his room with the door shut. Well,he's grown now, he's got his own apartment, and for sevenmonths he actually held a job as a stock boy in a hugediscount store. Too many people there, half of them askinghim questions, the other half pushing some brat in astroller. At least they taught him how to stack and balance.99 bottles of beer on the wall… Hell, 99 bottles don't evenscratch the surface.

Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com.

Friday, August 18, 2006

by Ann TweedyIn the front loader, among otherdisplaced limbs, ride the legs of the mayor's son, travelingone last time, from leveled houseto cemetery. See, cries the mayor,pulling one out, this was my son,a sportsman who practiced tae kwon do.Of all the ends love could come to,why this one? Ann Tweedy grew up in a small town in Massachusetts. She has been writing poetry ever since she moved to the West Coast in 1996. Over fifty of her poems have been published or are forthcoming in publications such as Clackamas Literary Review, Rattle, Avocet, Harrington Lesbian Fiction Quarterly, Berkeley Poetry Review, and Stringtown Review. For her day job, she works as a lawyer on behalf of Indian tribes and divides her time between Seattle and Skagit County, Washington.

FOX News called the Centannis earlyMonday that he’d been kidnapped:“We’re a little bit nervous right nowbecause we haven't still heard anythingone way or the other from the kidnappers;we talked with the FOX News negotiatorslast night, who haven't heard from the kidnappers.''

Centanni left excited for his FOX News assignment in Israel,after Iraq & Afghanistan; “He thought Israel would bea safer place than going to Iraq. A gentle, peaceful man,his passion, reporting from overseas, is what he’s all about.You can't keep him away from telling human stories. He’shoping his work will do some good to stop this madness.''

The Centannis take heart that FOX News’ representatives& Palestinian leaders are working for Steve’s release.“That's what we’re hanging our hats on right now."

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

by Aaron SchneiderOn the national, morning radio show Thousands crowd onto ships, tourists and dual citizens together, frantic together in terror and Beirutthe foreign minister sayswe are concerned about certain individualspeople who hold Canadian passportsbut do not live in Canada.Certain individuals. Of course, they have a right... Do we judge them by the dust on their boots? Driven into the pleats of their skin? It is the dust of Lebanon.But Canadian residentsmust be our first priority.He does not say, must not say,No! he cannot thinkTHEY ARE NOT CANADIAN.A woman calls in. She is Canadian.She does not say. The host does not ask.It's understood. Eh! Fear has its own accents. tearing vowels and sharp, sputtering consonants. Horror is the only universal language.She says, I think those peoplewho have homes there,who have lived there,over there, for years. How do we assign them origins? How do we take the measure of their hearts? They belong to what they long for.These people should not expectour government to spendour hard earned dollarssaving them.She does not say, must not say,No! she cannot thinkTHEY ARE NOT CANADIAN.A roving reporter interviewsthe customers eating breakfast at Tim Hortons.She does not ask them where they're from.They are from Tim Hortons. Trauma tastes of bile, adrenaline is murder on the stomach and food does not go well with flight.The customers agree,we have limited resources.We are a small country.We have to make hard choices.We can only do so much. How much for salvation, for safety? How much for his life? For hers? How much for yours? How do you put a price on shame?The customers agree,someone, not them--they are humble,they defer to higher authorities--someone should decide.They do not say, must not say,No! they cannot thinkTHEY ARE NOT CANADIAN.The prime minister addresses the nation.He is sober and comforting.He has made hard choices. The bombs do not stop for speeches. The diplomats are drowned out by explosions, the runways are broken, the roads are out and bridges down.He says, we musthelp those in need,help those we can.To do otherwisewould be unCanadian. What are we, each and every one of us, born here or elsewhere, at home or abroad, if not citizens of the human country of suffering?But we must be on guardagainst those who tryto take advantage of our hospitality,exploit our generosity.He does not say.No! He does not have to say.We are comforted and confident thatWE ARE CANADIAN.Aaron Schneider is a graduate student and good for nothing. He is Canadian for the moment.

Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American 4midable, 10acious, cre8ive 1derer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com. Spreading revitalized roots and fine-feathered wings in Thailand, this uniquecorn has devoted the past year and a half to volunteer tsunami relief and child-focused educational support. 100+ publications on 5 continents.

Monday, August 14, 2006

Each bomb experiences a little deathbut only fulfills its destinywhen it captures other deaths with it.Welcome to the battle of the bombs.Can you keep score?Hezbollah attacks are called terrorist raids.Israeli attacks are called military operations.Hezbollah shoots rockets called Katyushas.Israel drops cluster bombs.Katyushas have ball bearings in the warheads.They fan out upon impactdamaging everything within the range of a football field.Katyushas are condemned by Human Rights Watch.Cluster bombs blast over a wide and imprecise area.They spread hundreds of bomblets -little bombs that becomede facto antipersonnel landmines.Cluster bombs are condemned by Human Rights Watch,Amnesty International too.Hezbollah hides rockets in apartment buildings,then fires the rockets on northern Israel.Some people die, many flee.Israel bombs the rocket buildings and some others too.They kill the families and the soldierswho live in the rocket buildings.Hezbollah captures Israeli soldiersand wants to trade them for Hezbollah soldiers.Israel invades Lebanon and wants to keep the land.Hezbollah fires rockets on civilian areas and people die.Israel adds chemicals to the bombsthat kill people and turn them blackbut leave hair and skin undamaged.Hezbollah kills 100.Israel kills 1,000.Who wins?If death equals winning,does the side that dies the most win?Karl Kadie holds an MA in English from San Francisco State University and is a native Californian. He has been writing poetry for over thirty years, and published poems in Haiku Headlines and on poetry blogs. His poems reflect a powerful concern about the political events of the new century. Karl earns his living by providing marketing for high technology companies in the United States and Europe.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

How I envythe furry blackyellow stripedcaterpillarthat climbsthe lush stemsof the basil plants.Sheltered within the deepgreen redolent canopyit spends its daysfeastingof the fragrant leaves,unawarethat with eachdelicious biteit destroysits gorgeous habitat.By the time the leavesare all reducedto lacy stubbleit will be timeto find a resting place,pull a shroud over itselfand wait for the dawnof the next life.How I envythe furry blackyellow stripedcaterpillarthat can destroyits worldand retreatto the succorof a regenerativecocoon.

Tamara Madison teaches English and French in one of those "failing schools" in Los Angeles. She has published poetry and short fiction in various literary journals in the U.S. and U.K. She is the winner of the 2005 Jane Buel Bradley Poetry Chapbook award for her chapbook "The Belly Remembers," which was published by Pearl Editions.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Flipping through August's Vogue,The Age IssueI discover the secret to tight toned armsis a surgical procedure done on twilight sleepending with a visible scar in the pit of your arm.

I discover that "before 40 women" are waiting,waiting to become wiser, smarter, sexierand well dressed.The mate finding, career hunting,having children days over.

I am advised that all women must "pause" for menopause,fess up to the loss of libido and heart palpitations.Put away the "nasty" T-shirt. Buy lingerie.See a cardiologist. Keep things interesting.Exercise and pay attention to how you look.

At mid-life, I am urged to harness the powerof the hormone induced change,in order to be transformed.It is a second round of poker.I have a whole new hand to play.This, the scientific conclusion.

So I pause and accept the factthat I too am becoming sexier as I get older.I pause at the checkout stand.

Say yes to being "helped out"with my loaded down grocery cart,say yes to the handsome young box boy.I pause flirtatiously and indulgein this coming of age opportunity.

Regina Nervo, lives with her husband and two children in Southern California where she teaches and writes. Her first collection appears in City by the Sea, which received the 2005 Jane Buel Bradley Chapbook Award and was published last year by Pearl Editions. Her work has appeared in Sheila-na -gig, Rip-rap, Pearl, and The Union.

“Even the FBI has conceded that the so-called Miami 7's plan was ‘more aspirational than operational’.”

– Slate.com [“Minority Report” (7/15/2006)]

terroris more liquidnow and the thought of itappears to have gotten strongerover time. contemplatethis quietly—sevenblack mendid, and at oncetheir dreams seemed explodeinto a full-scale indictment—sans even a spectreof some substanceso whatshould wethink about this?today, london’s bridgingthe great gap between justice’sinternational teeththey’re combing thrumore thanhairyevidence ofa potential bomb plottheir targets really got startedagain, what should we think?—perhaps nothingat all

Carol Elizabeth Owens is an attorney and counselor-at-law in Western New York (by way of Long Island and New York City). She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Ms. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play. The poem "don't even think about it " is written in a form called eintou (which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom").

Thursday, August 10, 2006

by Mary SaracinoThe color of money’s the only skin-tone sanctioned by the Feds. Green with envy, green-eyed monster, eat your greens, grow strong on the green, green grass of corporate greed; we’re green-as-all-get-out herein the good ole U.S. of A. where freedom’s just another wordfor privilege; if you got greenbacks, you got access.The ones they call illegal seek greener pastures, too,places to grow families, reap a prosperous future.Cough up enough cash and bypass the militia-manned borderlands. Legit as legal tender, there’d be no need tocross crushing rivers, endure stench-filled sewer tunnels, the suffocating trunks of rusty cars, or play dodge ball with SUVs, Hummers, mini-vans on teeming highways — to gain entry into the landof free enterprise, the home of the so-called brave.America averts its eyes from the huddled masses.Our melting pot boils with rage; somebody’s gotta pay.How dare they think they deserve a chance to scrub our toilets, pick our crops, tend our gardens, build our over-priced condos,change the linens on our ritzy hotel beds, steal sub-par wages from our citizens who refuse to clean up the mess we’ve made of democracy, refuse to piece together the tattered remnants of our country’smost precious commodity: justice and liberty for all.Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet who lives in Denver, CO. Her newest novel, The Singing of Swans, is to be published in October 2006 by Pearlsong Press.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

I read the report from that bureaucrat, he claimed,but it was only the daily press clips, a summary of summaries.W wished he could remember what the scientists had saidas his Texas ranch burned in the unending sun.

Russell Libby writes from Three Sisters Farm in Mount Vernon, Maine, where it's been raining a lot more than normal the past few springs and way too hot in the summer. He's heading out now to let the chickens wander and take care of the apple trees.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

A guard dog has ripped apart a collection of rare teddy bears, including one once owned by Elvis Presley, during a rampage at a children's museum. Authorities struggled to explain what triggered the attack…

– CBS News, August 3, 2006

First off, there was his name. Barney. Even though hisbreeder insisted he’d been named for the expensive NewYork department store, whenever he heard his name heimagined children laughing in the background. So he hatedchildren. Then, there was his trainer, who happened to bean Elvis Presley maniac. Brushing Barney after a run, he’dbe singing: you ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog… Barney wasfairly certain a Doberman wasn’t a hound, but it still upsethim. Songs such as Love Me Tender or Heartbreak Hotelhe could shake off his fur like dried gravel, but sometimesat night when he couldn’t sleep there would be otherPretzel lyrics going through his head: Let me be your lovin’teddy bear, put a chain around my neck and lead meanywhere… Well, he didn’t think much of the chain part,but at times he was so lonely he might have agreed to that.

Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com.

I cannot cleanse myself.I will not cleanse myself.You are my launching platform of revenge.

Where is God? You say He is with you.They say He is with them. I know He is with me.Well, who is He with? Who does He love?

What color of animal does He favor?What texture of hair is He partial to?How does He measure our cultures?

Does He love Islam more than Judaismand Sikhism more than Animism?Does He love Hinduism more than Christianity?

I am only a flying fish,hitting and slapping,breaking you down and

breaking myself into pieces.In the name of God,we have the right to torture with skin-bullets

and to decapitate with our blood-battalionsand to instill the act of taking one’s own life.I mimic your hate.

I am capable of this.I am a fisheating fish.

Maybe God wears a buffalo robeand sadly watches us from a horseas we demolish one another.

Mary Hamrick was born in New York and moved to Florida when she was a young girl. Her writing often reflects the contrast between her Northern and Southern upbringing. Current and forthcoming publications include Arabesques Press, Architecture Ink, Cezanne’s Carrot, Howling Dog Press (OMEGA 6), On the Page Magazine, Pemmican, Poetry Repair Shop, Poems Niederngasse, Potomac Review, Scrivener’s Pen, Tattoo Highway, The Barricade, The Binnacle, The Subway Chronicles and others.

Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American pragmatic idealist, chronic optimist and heretical believer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poetic impression for each presented on http://imagesof.8k.com. Having spread rejuvenated roots and wings in Thailand, the past year has been devoted to providing volunteer comfort and supportive relief to children and families affected by the tsunami. 100+ publications on 5 continents.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Janet Jackson madethe Congressional Record.Or, her nipple did.Right there with Roe v. Wade,the 2000 mile fenceto keep the Mexicans outand the resolution to invade Iraqbecause “they gotta have WMD.”The incensed House is making sureno child will see a mammary glandafter suckling it for their first two years.Nintendo and Play Station horror:fast-action hero dismemberment gamesslide under the radar screen.Sex is taboo. Violence gets PG-13, a pass.A national referendumon bra tensile strength?Legislate. Go on the stump.Whip up the base.Stay the course.Let’s nip this nipplein the bud.

Erle Kelly lives in Long Beach, California, attended Cal State University, Long Beach where he received a BA in Business Administration. He retired three years ago and has been filling his time traveling, gardening, volunteering and attending a poetry workshop conducted by Donna Hilbert, a noted published poet and writer both in the US and England. This is Erle's first published poem which came out of the workshop.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

“The current crisis is part of a larger struggle between the forces of freedom and the forces of terror in the Middle East…[a]nd as we saw on Sept. 11, the status quo in the Middle East led to death and destruction in the United States, and it had to change.” George W. Bush [New York Times (on-line) Jul. 31. 2006]

Carol Elizabeth Owens is an attorney and counselor-at-law in Western New York (by way of Long Island and New York City). She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Ms. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play. The poem "bang (a note on spontaneity of combustion)" is written in a form called eintou (which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom").

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